


Until we Meet Again

by McGuck



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, M/M, NSFW, Trans Male Character, Trans Mcgucket
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 03:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4944469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McGuck/pseuds/McGuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines has returned to the Mystery Shack, and he needs his old friend to help him with his greatest undertaking yet. Meanwhile, Stanley and McGucket discover a shared past and grow closer together than ever. What problems will Ford's push to form the old duo again cause for Fiddleford and Stanley's relationship?  (Slight AU, Trans!McGucket)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm trying something new here. Rating will go up in later chapters.

“I don't know where he is, Ford.” Stan looked at his brother in exasperation. “I haven't seen him around town since you got here – after what you told me, poor guy is probably hiding from you.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, retrieving a soda from the fridge.

“Stan, now that I know he's still alive, I need him. It's not my business to tell you how, but this dimension is still in grave danger, and I need someone with the technical skills to help me.” Ford rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “And, I guess, I need to make it up to him, too – he was right about the portal. Should've seen that coming.”

“In that case, you've got a lot of making up to do.” Stan popped the tab of his soda and took a swig, eyeing his brother wearily, thumbing the rim of the can.

“You think he'd forgive me after thirty years?” Ford paced around the kitchen, ignoring his brother as he sat down at the table. 

“Ford, there's probably something you should know about McGucket. He - “

“He's _got_ to forgive me, I _need_ him for this! If he doesn't help me with this, the whole _dimension_ could be in jeopardy!” 

“McGucket's not the same guy you remember, Ford, I don't know if he can help you. I mean, sure, the guy is smart – I think. But - “

“What is it, Stanley?” Ford ran a hand through his hair, his gaze becoming one of concern. He adjusted his glasses without a second thought. “Is he famous? Successful?” He turned around, eyebrows pinching together in a look of frustration, cupping his chin in his hand. “Stanley, you're good at getting past bodyguards, right?”

“'Famous' is one way of putting it,” Stan stood up with a grunt, resting his hand heavily on one of his brother's shoulders. “Anyway, nerd, I've got nothing better to do today – you want we should drop by and check if he's at home?” He stuck a finger in his brother's face preemptively. “I'm warning you, though, he's not the person you remember.” 

Ford's coat swished lithely behind him as he suddenly ceased his pacing, interested in Stanley's offer. He pushed his brother's hand down. “Perfect then! I just need you to lead me to him and I'll do all the talking!” He chuckled lightly. “Fiddleford and I were tight ever since college, if anything can convince him to help save the universe, it's his ol' study buddy Ford!”

Stan's frown darkened slightly at his brother's optimism. “Sure, pal,” He murmured under his breath. “Sure.”

There were signs of life scattered all throughout the dump, tools that Fiddleford had used to build his robots, the little doghouse he had attempted to keep an alligator in; Fiddleford's own lowly hovel sticking out like an abandoned visage of times past. But, no sign of Fiddleford. The wind blew through the dump, whistling against the rusted metal of the cars; a lonely and forlorn sound.

Stan made a wide, vague, sweeping gesture towards the dump. “He's not here, Ford. Can we leave?” There was part of Stan that didn't  _want_  them to Find McGucket, part of him that didn't  _want_  Ford to have to come face-to-face with the person his old colleague had become; but there was another part of Stanley that demanded that Ford understand the full consequences of his actions, Fiddleford's destroyed mind and memories being just one of many things that his recklessness had led to over the past 60 years of their lives. 

“You can't possibly tell me he lives here!” Ford looked at Stan incredulously. “Stanley, I haven't time to be playing games with you, I need to know where Fiddleford is living, this is a life or death situation! The fate of the universe could be -”

“Blah blah, 'fate of the universe,' I know Mr. Serious!” Stan began to lead his brother into the dump. “I told you, the guy isn't who you think he is anymore! He's been livin' in this place for the past thirty years!” Stan ducked into Fiddleford's hovel and took a glance around, but there was no sign of him. There was tons of junk strewn about - empty bottles of moonshine, a few scattered bean cans, and a few other unidentifiable objects that Stanley figured McGucket must have been using for his work. “Empty.” He said. 

“I hear something,” Ford said, “It's coming from outside.” The bespectacled man stepped out from behind the animal skins hanging in Fiddleford's doorway and made his way to the other side of the house, his brother following close behind.

“Oh boy...” Stan murmured, his eyes falling on the sight in front of him. There he was, a little old man, snoring face down in the mud, his nose buried in his beard. He was looking more bedraggled and filthy than usual, as is he had been outside for a long time, but he was sleeping peacefully enough. 

Stan motioned for Ford to stay back. “I'll wake him up,” He said. “Don't crowd him though, you'll probably scare him, he's kind of....” Stan bit his lip. “High-strung.” Stan reached down to shake the sleeping man, whose snoring just grew louder, perhaps as a result. “Really?” Stan frowned.

Ford adjusted his glasses habitually. “That's not Fiddleford,” He stated. It couldn't be. An old, barefooted man, wearing a pair of dirty overalls and sleeping in the filthy mud in the middle of the dump? “That can't be him, Stan, that's not him. He's a smart guy, Fiddleford, he wouldn't let himself get this bad.” Ford felt a wave of panic pass over him – why was his brother insisting on bothering with this homeless man?

“You have a lot of learning to do, Ford, things aren't as peachy as you remember them being.” Stan stood up and retrieved a bucket of rain water that Fiddleford had been collecting in the back of his hovel. “Sorry buddy,” Stan said, somewhat regretfully, before upending the entire bucket on the slumbering man.

Fiddleford's eyes jolted open and he stuck a bandaged hand out to shield himself from the water. “Dernit all, just had a rainstorm yesterday!” He murmured, delirious, before his eyes adjusted to the sight before him. His face broke out into happy, welcoming grin. “Oh, uh, howdy Mr. Pines!” He grabbed his hat, which had been laying on the ground next to him, and stuck it on his head. “Didn't expect any visitors; sorry 'bout the state I'm in, been havin' a tough time of it since the neighborhood kids decided to play a joke on me an' all!” His voice deteriorated a little bit at the last few words, becoming meek and pathetic. “D...do you mind helpin' me out here? I-if it's not too much trouble?”

Stan raised his eyebrows, just now noticing that Fiddleford's beard was stuck beneath a heavy piece of machinery that had been cast off in the dump, perhaps something that Fiddleford had been using for his inventions.

“Kids did that to you?”

“Been tryin' to get out for a day or so now!” McGucket's voice was cheerful enough, but Stan could hear the fear in his voice. This man had been genuinely afraid that he was going to die out here. McGucket held up his hands to show Stan his fingers; which were covered in bruises and scabs, his nails were shredded. “I ain't got the elbow grease to lift it, but maybe with your help - “ Fiddleford felt a wave of shame pass over him as he saw the look in Stanley's eyes; here he was, demanding help and attention from people who didn't want to give him the time of day, as always - but he had been so scared; he had only stopped struggling when he had exhausted himself so thoroughly that he had passed out. He couldn't do it alone, he had been alone for the past thirty years of his life, and not one day of those thirty years had he ever accomplished anything noteworthy by himself. Even now, the only reason he was becoming more cognizant and lucid was because those kids had gone out of their way to help him remember who he was; and still, he didn't remember everything.

Stan glanced off to the side, where Ford was standing at the back of the house. “Yeesh,” he said. Stan didn't know much about McGucket, but the way the neighborhood teens treated him was beyond awful, not to mention the rest of the town. He seemed like a friendly enough fellow, although decidedly strange in many ways – it was bizarre to think that this man had once been regular member of society. 

Stan reached down beneath the metallic hunk and grabbed on, straining just enough so that McGucket could slip out from under it. He let it go with a resounding 'thud' after the old man had freed himself. 

Fiddleford leapt out, managing a short jig of victory before collapsing to the ground, his hand darting to his forehead. “Oh, wowee, I'm seein' stars, Mr. Pines, that ain't normal, is it?” He frowned slightly, struggling to focus his eyes, finally noticing Ford standing behind his twin. “An', now I'm seein' double .” There was a touch of concern in Fiddleford's voice.

Stan bent down beside McGucket, helping him to his feet. “When's the last time you ate or drank anything, old man? You don't look so hot – no offense.” 

Fiddleford counted on his fingers. “Well, rainwater tastes good enough, but as for eatin', guess it depends on whether I've been here two or three days, can't rightly remember m'self!” His face was much paler than usual. “I don't feel too hot, t' be honest with ya.”

“Okay, you're coming back to the Shack with us. I'll give you a free meal – on the house.” The thought of handing out charity was an annoyance to Stan, to say the last, but McGucket was literally having trouble standing up, and he didn't want to see the man dead. He grabbed McGucket's thin, bony wrist. “No arguments.”

Stan looked back at Ford, who had been on the verge of saying something ever since they had arrived, but Stan made a gesture to silence him. Fiddleford didn't need the stress of their reunion in his current state, he was liable to pass out without much more provocation. 

It took a little while for Stan to find something edible for McGucket in the house; he made his brother stay in the other room while he rifled through the kitchen; the old man had admitted to Stan that eating solid foods was painful and difficult for him because of his missing teeth, and while he often resorted to consuming such things back at the dump; Stan suspected this was why Fiddleford was so emaciated.

“Sorry it's not much, geezer, you'll have to take it or leave it.” Stan dropped a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of McGucket, who eyed it like he hadn't seen food in decades. “Real food! Real food that ain't just canned beans or some piece a' meat I stole off a raccoon! I can't afford nothin' like this, Mr. Pines, you done right by me!”

“It's microwave mashed potatoes.” Stan sat down at the table, cupping his cheek with his hand, looking border than ever. “It's not that expensive. If you can afford eight cups of coffee from the diner, you can afford this.”

“Oh, I can't afford that! I always spend frivolously and beyond my means!” McGucket grabbed his spoon and took a bite, happily swinging his legs back and forth beneath the table. “Once, I spent nearly all m' savings on a broken down car, just fer the opossum nestin' in the trunk!” The old man squinted at Stan. “I'm beginnin' to recognize the problems with that sorta behavior.” 

“Are you feeding him my potatoes?” Ford's voice could be heard from the other room. “You know I was saving them for -” 

“Can it, Ford!” Stanley watched as McGucket hungrily shoveled down the entire contents of the bowl. “Sorry about my brother, he's...well, you know better than anyone, don't you?”

McGucket dropped the spoon into the empty bowl, he had eaten so much that he couldn't really move. “Your brother?” He repeated, sincerely confused. “You have a brother, Mr. Pines?”

A twinge of panic surfaced in Fiddleford's chest, but he suppressed it. Strange, to be scared over nothing.

Stan frowned slightly. McGucket really didn't remember anything about Ford? The kids had mentioned something about him getting his memories back; and this was a really difficult topic to broach, especially with what had gone down between the two of them thirty years ago. Stan hesitated. “Yes, my brother, Stanford. You...you don't remember him, do you McGucket?”

The little old man nearly wheezed, twisting his bruised hands together self-consciously. “Oh, fiddlesticks, I forgot someone else dinn't I?” Fiddleford looked at his companion with an apologetic gaze. “I'm sorry, I ain't remembered nothin' beyond thirty years ago – if I'd known him before, I'm awfully sorry, fer...fer forgettin', you know.”

The flash of recognition was growing stronger in Fiddleford's mind; that feeling, like white-hot embers burning the memories into his brain, as they had been burned there so many years ago. He couldn't just get rid of them anymore, _wouldn't_ even if he could have, but he wasn't sure he wanted to remember anymore. Not like this. There were some things better off left forgotten.

Was McGucket lying? Stan had never pegged this guy as any kind of calculated liar, but the kids had told him that Fiddleford was indeed, beginning to remember things. Stan leaned forward in his chair and looked at the other man with what he considered to be a gaze of reassurance. “Listen, old man, you're safe. No one's going to hurt you, you can tell the truth. You remember something, Dipper and Mabel – they told me what happened; with your memories and all.” There was something familiar about the way McGucket sat in that chair, closing in on himself, the Southern twang of his voice growing thicker as his nerves escalated, his fingers lacing together so tightly that his knuckles began to turn white. 

Stan remembered chestnut hair, flipped over a narrow shoulder; the bluest eyes shining behind thin panes of glass, the last days of summer as sweet and saccharine as his earliest childhood memories with Ford. The field, covered in long grass and peppered with wildflowers, the sound of a banjo - everywhere, always that banjo. Stan's hand crept to his forehead, fingers intertwining with his hair - why was he remembering _her_? Now? Like this? He shook the memory out of his head, as uninvited as Fiddleford's own intrusive thoughts. He didn't want to put Fiddleford in this position, but this business about 'saving the world' - could it really be ignored? Stan glanced into the other room, and then whispered, as if in afterthought, “What are you so afraid of?" 


	2. Glad to be Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Fiddleford react when Ford makes a move to coerce his old partner into jumping into another big project; a project monumental enough to hold the fate of the world in its successful execution? Meanwhile, tension between brothers increases, and Fiddleford's memories begin to intensify. Some memories, better than others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2. I am rushing to get some chapters out because this is essentially trying to fit in as much as possible with current canon while still deviating for personal needs; I've now officially preempted Fids' and Fords' reunion in the show, which is a relief. I hope you enjoy!

McGucket's face reddened immediately, he laced his fingers together firmly and looked down into his lap, his eyes unusually focused. “So...you...you know about me, you know about...what I used to be, huh?” A nervous, high-pitched giggle escaped from between his lips. “Silly what fate'll do to ya, in't it? When I watched that video, y'know, I realized, people probably used to...to _like_ me, maybe. Ya...ya don't know how much I wish I could be like that again, ya don't...”

  
“Whoa whoa whoa, hold back there, old guy, don't pull out the water works on me here,” Stan had been meaning to use this conversation to ease Fiddleford into meeting his brother again, but somehow it had led to the poor man becoming more distraught than ever. Stan cringed. He wasn't good at this kind of thing, especially with how sensitive McGucket was. “Listen, McGucket, things happen, and they're not always for the better – but you, you seem like, y'know, a positive sort of guy.” Stan's mind wandered to the day he had been kicked out of the house, the years he had spent homeless and unloved; they were the same, he and Fiddleford. “You're worth just as much now as you ever were, lives aren't on a sliding scale like that. It's bullshit classicism.” Stan leaned back in his chair, eyeing Ford, who was pacing around in the other room impatiently. He really wished he would stop.

 Fiddleford said nothing, so Stan sighed, running a hand through his hair, and then said. “Gramps, if there's anything I've learned from my own life, it's that you can't compare the person who you were _before_ to the person you are now, and you can't compare _either_ of those people to who you'll be in the future.”

McGucket was reddening slightly at Stan's words, he could practically hear his own heart beating. Why was Stan treating him so nicely? He didn't deserve it, didn't deserve  _any_ of it - he'd been the one too foolish to stop wiping his mind before it'd been too late,  _he'd_ been the one to destroy his family - to ruin their lives by failing as a father and a husband. What he'd done had only ever hurt people, and the only person he'd thought about while holding that gun to his head over and over again was  _himself._ He deserved the scorn, the hatred, the abandonment. Stan and those kids? They were the only ones who'd ever told him otherwise. Why should he believe anything else?

 “Enough of that sappy nonsense,” Stan gestured for his brother to come in, although the gesture was a hesitant one. The grumpy old conman wasn't exactly re-introducing the old pals with a clear conscience. He had an awful bad feeling about it - _friends_ , Ford had called them. Of course, his brother made sure that his side of the story was always the one everyone got to hear, he'd made that clear the moment he came out of that portal, revealing himself like some kind of glorified action hero. It was bullshit. “I want to re-introduce you to someone who says you're going to help him save the universe – pretty tall order if you ask me, but Ford's always been a bit theatrical.”

 “F..Ford?” Fiddleford repeated, breathlessly, staring with huge, round, glassy eyes as Stan's twin brother strode into the room.

“Fiddleford...” Ford's eyebrows pinched together as they usually did during times of acute concern. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around what had happened - Thirty years ago, Fiddleford had been brilliant, highly-intuitive, well put-together, and very possibly on the road to becoming a successful engineer. And now... “Is...is that really you? What...what happened to you, buddy?” He took a step forward, and Fiddleford cringed.

 McGucket could feel himself beginning to panic, but he wasn't sure yet why he was having such a reaction to this man. He grabbed his chest with one hand and began to wheeze, backpedaling in his chair as if someone was trying to stick him with hot embers.

 “Fiddleford, I'm not going to hurt you - “ Ford slowly extended a single six-fingered hand, palm up. “See? I'm unarmed, I'm your friend – remember?” Ford's heart burned at the sight of disheveled, frightened little old man who had once been his best colleague and friend all of those years ago.

McGucket's eyes focused on Ford's hand, and something about the sight of it triggered him into full panic mode. Even with his full belly, McGucket jumped off the chair and scittered into the corner of the kitchen, holding his hands up in front of him as if to shield himself. His voice had become high-pitched and shrill. “Y...ya can't look at me! N-not like this.” Fiddleford's whole body was trembling. “P-please, if...if ya have any respect for me, y'all wouldn't...y'all wouldn't look at me like this, Ford-! Just let me leave, let me leave and y'all never have to see me again, and then y'all can forget this ever happened!”

 Ford's jaw set. “Fiddleford, it's okay, you're okay....” He took a few steps forward, placing his hand on McGucket's shoulder. “How did this happen? Who...who did this to you?” McGucket's accent had gotten much heavier than it had been thirty years ago; his voice squeaky like an un-oiled hinge.

 Fiddleford looked at his old friend, wild-eyed, and then slapped his hand away. “Y'all did this to me, Stanford!” He dug blunt nails into the flesh of his palm, he wanted to stand up and face Ford at his level, but he fearfully maintained his defensive crouch instead. He really was close to tears, but he didn't want Ford to see him that weak. He didn't know what he felt, really – there was anger, of course, but it was a muffled anger; muffled, because up until a few weeks ago he hadn't even known what he had lost. He hadn't been holding a grudge for thirty years, because for thirty years he hadn't even known who Ford  _was,_ or even who he was.

 And then, was it _really_ Ford's fault that Fiddleford had gone down the path he had? McGucket remembered the portal, blue like neon or light like the flash of headlights just before the collision; a searing-hot brightness. “I couldn't s-stop it...” He jibbered wildly, “That thing wanted me, dern near _had_ me too--! You didn't see it! If y'all saw it, you'd've done the same!” His pupils had dilated heavily, and he gazed at Ford as though he didn't see him at all. He was pushing back a memory, a memory so close to surfacing that the terror had manifested into his mania. If he just probed a little farther, went a little _deeper_ into his broken brain, he'd see it. The _it_ he saw way back when, the _it_ that had caused him to systematically destroy his own mind and, consequently, his life, over the course of just a single year.

 “I...” Ford looked at Stan with a 'help me' expression written on his features, but Stan said nothing. Ford had gotten himself into this mess, Ford would have to get himself out. “Fiddleford, I don't understand...after you quit the project, I remember, you know, you wanted to forget – and that Society thing, you just...wanted to forget about everything, but...what happened? Really?”

Fiddleford forced the memory back into his subconscious; the mental effort was far greater than he would've liked to have admitted – it seemed the memories he _didn't_ want were flowing up to the surface just as fast as the good ones; if only it were something he could _control_. Fiddleford had to be careful, now, he couldn't just erase the things he didn't want to see anymore - wouldn't even if he could have. He had to be stronger, now, even if it hurt. _Especially_ if it hurt. He wanted to make his life better, he had to look out for himself.

“I made a mistake, a miscalculation,” Fiddleford looked at Ford imploringly, his voice shakier than ever. “Just like you did, Ford, the folly of man, ain't it? Funny what one little mistake can do change the entire course of your life.”

 “What did you do to yourself?” Ford had thought his failed partnership with Bill had done enough damage to his own mind; making him paranoid, causing him to isolate himself from everyone and everything around him. _Trust no one_. A mantra he had repeated to himself time and time again ever since the incident. But Fiddleford was on a whole other level – the way he talked, the way he acted, how fearful he was behaving, the way he had let himself decline physically and financially to a point at which he was barely even recognizable as the man he had been 30 years ago.

“Turns out, repeated use of memory-erasing equipment can have some unexpected side effects, eh heh!” He gestured to his head. “M' mind's broken beyond repair, Ford, whatever y' need, I can't help you with it.” He gave a small, apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, I ain't the same person you used to know.”

 “I missed you,” Ford said earnestly. “And you did all that...just to forget about me...” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “Guess I really messed up big time.” That pang of guilt came back again, more powerful than ever – part of him told himself that Fiddleford had been the foolish one for doing this to himself, that Fiddleford's state of mind was his own fault, but the other part of him...he frowned. He was still sorry. After all of these years. But saying it – that wast he toughest part of all.

Stan frowned darkly on the other side of the room, arms crossed in front of him. Stanford still hadn't apologized to him for what had happened between the two of them, still hadn't thanked him for the risks he'd taken to get Ford back. But, at least, Stan guessed, he was admitting what a total travesty the portal idea had been from the get go. Ford was smart, but foolish – Fiddleford was the same as his brother, in a way. In both of their cases, their genius had been their downfall.

Fiddleford was taken aback by Ford's statement. “I'm...I'm happy t' see you again, Ford. Sorry that it had to be like this – if...if I'd a' known you was comin' I would've cleaned up a little, hocked some a' my equipment for some new shoes or somethin.'” Fiddleford clenched his fists, suddenly more self-conscious than ever about his appearance. There was mud caked to his overalls, his feet, his beard – without running water, it could take a couple of hours to get it all out; but then again, since when was McGucket that fastidious about his appearance? It wasn't as if he didn't want to look presentable, he _wanted_ to look good, but for the past three decades he hadn't the capacity to maintain any level of self-care.

 Ford leaned forward and took his old friend into his arms, startled by how much thinner his body felt when he held him; Fiddleford just felt so _small_ . His old colleague had always been a thin little man, but it had gotten so much worse over the years that he feared a little for his friend's safety. “Listen, Fiddleford...” he hesitated. “There's something I need you to help me with.”

Fiddleford went rigid in Ford's arms. “H...help you, with s-something?” He stuttered, his tongue becoming paper in his mouth. “Ford...l-listen, I told you, I ain't the same anymore, I-I” He mumbled, backing away from Ford, fingers laced tightly together in front of him. “I don't have the mind fer it, y-y'know...” His eyes were wide and scared, the prospect of getting involved in another project with Ford was terrifying to him. “I better go b-back, t-to the bunker, only reason I was at m' house was I had to get a few things, some a' my equipment was there, w-wanted to work on my inventions-” He clapped a hand over his mouth, looking up at Ford sheepishly. “I, I mean t' say, not that I'm...doin' a whole lot of inventin'...”  
  
“So you _can_ still build things!” Ford's face broke out in a gigantic smile. “Fiddleford, even like this you're a brilliant man!” Ford slapped Fiddleford chummily on the back, almost sending the smaller man flying. “You've been wasting your life for the last thirty years, it's time to finally make something of it!”

 “I, I don't know, Ford...” Fiddleford's eyes wandered to Stan, who was still standing behind the two of them, surveying the conversation between them. “Last time I helped you, it...it didn't go so well. Didn't exactly escape the last project unscathed, did I?” Fiddleford looked at Stan, almost pleadingly, praying that someone would help him get out of this situation. “The risk...it just...it don't seem worth it, t' get involved with another one of yer projects an' all.”

 Stan clenched a fist, his face darkening. “Ford,” He said abruptly. “Leave him alone.”

 Ford's gaze shifted to Stanley. “He's fine, Stanley! Can't you see we're having a conversation?” Ford gestured defiantly in Fiddleford's direction.

“Look at him, he's covered in filth, do you really want your lab partner covered in filth?” Stanley turned to Fiddleford and put his hands on the man's narrow shoulders. “Look, hate to break it to you buddy, but you're tracking dirt all over the shack. Shower's open, though. I ain't washing you, you'll have to do that yourself.”

 Fiddleford's eyes suddenly brightened, the dazzling blue causing that faint memory to stir within Stanley's mind. “A _real_ shower, Mr. Pines? Y'mean, a real shower with hot water an' everything?” He began to rock up and down a little bit in his excitement, his smile stretching from one ear to the other.

 “Yeah, and it's not cheap, so don't be in there for too long, got it?”

McGucket tossed his hands up into the air. “Boy howdy do I!” Fiddleford performed an obligatory victory jig before high-tailing it towards the back of the house in an excited frenzy.

 Ford narrowed his eyes. offended. What was his brother playing at, trying to come between him and Fiddleford? He didn't have any idea what they were dealing with, and the guy was so careless that telling him the details would just make everything worse. The rift was already cracked - and he still hadn't forgotten what had happened to his science project all those years ago. “Stanley, that conversation was very important – the shower could have waited; you won't have to worry about dirt in my house at _all_ when the entire dimension is destroyed!” He stabbed an accusatory finger in Stan's direction, but his brother batted it away in annoyance.

 “The guy's terrified of you, Ford.” Stan waved his hand in exasperation. He didn't know why he cared, didn't know why he was sticking up for Old Man McGucket, something about the look in his eyes, like a cornered animal. “When did you become a bully?” The disgust in Stan's tone was evident, and Ford hesitated, taken aback. “You said I looked like Dad, huh?” He let out a humorless laugh. “I guess we know who _acts_ like him, now, don't we? Are you going to toss him aside if he can't help you?”

 A glare darkened Stanford's visage, but the comment stung. Stung worse than anything anyone had said to him in a long time. He looked down at his six-fingered handed, clenching it shut. “It's not like that.”

\----- 

Hot water was the biggest godsend Fiddleford had experienced in a long time. He'd turned it up as high as it went; steam billowed throughout the room, fogging up the glass, making it hard to breath. As Fiddleford stood there, letting the water beat against his skin, he temporarily allowed his thoughts of Ford to slip from his mind.

 The old man gazed at the drain as it ran clean of the mud that had been caked all over his body; it was a strange feeling, being clean. He felt a twinge of embarrassment as he realized he didn't remember the last time he had bathed – had it been weeks? Months? He didn't like washing because of his own reflection watching him in the wash bin; somewhere in his clouded mind he had once thought it had been another person altogether. Those days were over now, he hoped.

 Fiddleford's eyelids began to droop, the heat of the shower was intoxicating, it was making him sleepy. “Maybe If n' I just snoozed for a few minutes, no one'd notice...” He mumbled, allowing himself to drift off a bit, his mind becoming hazy, his head becoming heavy.

 The sunset was a red-orange in the distance, the heat of the day had faded into a pleasantly-warm summer's night, a light breeze ruffling McGucket's hair.

The grass tickled his bare ankles; the smell of honeysuckle, sweet and delicate, drifted on the evening air. Fiddleford stood up straight. The cricks in his back were gone, the aching hunger from going for days without food. He felt well. _Mentally_ well. For the first time in ages.

 It took a moment or two to notice that there was someone beside him, his hand was enveloped within the youth's fingers, his own fingers, adorned with purple polish.

 McGucket frowned. Nail polish? That didn't seem right. He looked up at his companion, who was laughing – a youthful sound; but he couldn't make out his face. “Who are you?” He asked.

Before he got an answer, Fiddleford's eyes flew open, the cloud that plagued his mind coming back as quickly as it had left; he was never quite the same sleeping as he was awake. He scrambled to his feet and shut off the water, panicking a little. How long had he been asleep?

 “You done in there, old man?” Stan wrapped his knuckles against the bathroom door, frowning at the steam billowing out beneath the crack at the bottom of the door. “ _So much for the water bill...”_ He mumbled beneath his breath.

 “I'm fine!” Fiddleford squeaked. “Sorry!” He frantically looked around the bathroom, searching for his clothes. “Fiddlesticks!” He cursed under his breath. “Uh, Mr. Pines! I ain't got nothing to wear in here!”

“I'm washing your clothes, they were covered in filth. When's the last time you did laundry, gramps?”

 “Been a real long time! Thirty years, probably!” Fiddleford giggled, excited about being clean and comfortable with washed clothes. He threw a towel around his waist and pushed the door open. “It's real hot in here,” he panted, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He curled a hand over his mouth, coughing, waving away the steam.

Stan averted his gaze. “Have some decency, the only old man I can tolerate seein' naked is _me_.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Pines, I got a towel on!”

Stan shoved some clothes into Fiddleford's arms. “These are mine, but you can wear them for now.” His eyes scanned the other man's bony frame; his ribs clearly visible beneath the skin. “They might be a _tad_ big on you,” He mentioned, masking the concern in his voice by remaining as nonchalant as possible.

“Aw, shucks, that's okay Mr. Pines, I 'preciate the gesture!” He looked up sheepishly at Stanley. “Y'all been showin' me kindness what I don't deserve.” The old prospector found himself fiddling with his hands again, he was a little taken aback by the consideration that he'd been shown by an individual who was widely-known throughout Gravity Falls as liar and a cheat. It didn't seem right. His eyes met with Stan's in an earnest look of curiosity. “Why? Why are you helping me?”

Stan was honestly surprised by this question. He looked away, embarrassed. “You needed it? I don't know, what is this, 20 questions?” Still, though, he felt strange. This man had needed help for the last three decades, and no one had even tried – Stan saw how McGucket's own son treated him. Stan turned around, his back facing McGucket, who was still looking at him with a kind of mesmerized wonder. “I'm sorry it didn't happen sooner.”

 


	3. Proposition

McGucket was as ready to listen as he'd ever be, which wasn't really saying much. The prospect of helping Stanford with another big undertaking was nearly sending the old man into a wave of panic.

  
Even as he sat with his old colleague in the basement where he lived and worked, Fiddleford could feel his breath catching in his throat, his heart becoming a hard little ball in his chest. He could not reverse the pain of what had happened to him, but there was still a chance that he could prevent any more damage; still a chance that he could save what little sanity he had begun to recover. So why was it that he was still here, sitting beside Ford in the dark, surrounded by a myriad of disturbing images. plastered to the walls like offerings?

“That...that thing in the pictures...” Fiddleford stammered, his gaze gliding across the one-eyed, triangular entity, so carefully and lovingly depicted; an image repeated over and over again across the walls of Ford's dwelling.

 

“Oh, nevermind that, Fiddleford.” Ford waved his hand dismissively. He frowned, hesitating. How much had Fiddleford known about Bill, way back when? The man had been suspicious, irate even, when it came to Ford's dealings with the demonic entity, but had he ever known the full extent of Ford's association with him? No need to alarm him more than necessary; and really, Ford had always considered his association with Bill to be a rather private affair; wouldn't have even told Dipper if the kid hadn't discovered for himself.

 

“Oh,” Fiddleford's voice was small, it wasn't as if he hadn't noticed the strange creature's visage elsewhere. He'd been aware of it, briefly, in the Northwest's manor – they had a similar tapestry. He hadn't paid much attention to it, then, but now...he shuddered.

 

McGucket cleared is throat and raised his head to look Ford in the eyes. “So, I suppose y'all need me here for somethin' – wouldn't come lookin' fer me if'n ya hadn't.” He hadn't meant the statement to sound accusatory; but it had, a little.

 

“Listen, Fiddleford, after what happened all those years ago, with you – and the portal – you know I wouldn't ask you for anything unless it was important. My brother, he doesn't understand the full magnitude of what's going on. The portal, that was just the beginning – if this thing pans out, it could mean the whole _world_ is done-for.” Stanford's eyes met Fiddleford's. “It wouldn't be just a few people gone, it'd be _everyone –_ your wife, your boy...”

 

“Yer puttin' me in a tight spot here, Ford, but...” He looked down, shoulders slumping. “If it really is as bad as y' say, I can't rightly sit idly by with a clear conscience. But...y'all gotta explain to me what's goin' on, y'all gotta tell me the truth - “ His mouth set into a thin little line as he eyed Ford wearily. “ - the _whole_ truth.”

 

Ford reached into his drawer and pulled out an average-sized, cracked glass globe; within which floated a sea of stars against a deep blue night sky, like a tiny galaxy. “After the portal was shut down for the last time, this was all that was left.” Ford palmed the globe carefully, holding it as though at any moment it could shatter into a million pieces.

 

“What's that?” McGucket stared at the globe, concentrating for this long was still difficult for him, and he could his brain attempting to shut itself back down into manic mode, but he managed to resist the urge. “Looks like a snowglobe, what's all that inside there?”

 

“It's a rift,” Ford took the globe and placed it back in his drawer. “A dimensional rift. It was formed when my hair-brained brother decided it was a good idea to re-activate the portal. It was _right in my notes_ that that thing was dangerous, I couldn't have made it any clearer! He's always found it _difficult_ to listen to reason.”

 

“I-I knew it!” Fiddleford's eyes went wide. “I knew somethin' big happened a few weeks ago! That must've been it, it must've been the portal openin' up again what like my laptop said! I knew the end a' the world was upon us, it was just a matter a' time!”

 

“Your laptop?” Ford raised an eyebrow. Fiddleford had more access to his old toys than Ford had thought. “Where'd you find that? You said you'd been down in the bunker – surprised you remember that.”

 

“The kids found it for me!” The old man found himself grinning in spite of himself, he really did care a lot about those kids, after what they'd done for him. If it hadn't have been for them, he might have lived the rest of his days even more sad and lonely than he was now. “Strange though, ain't it? My laptop, it predicted everything like what y'all said with the portal - “ Fiddleford tilted his head to side, genuinely confused and concerned with the implications of that statement. “Ain't no reason that date should've been in there, but it was – it's like, even all that time ago, I was expectin' somethin' to happen.” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts; trying to bring up the memories wasn't doing any good right now. “But it don't make no sense. Ain't no way I could've known – right?”

 

“It's nothing, we found some documents back then that foretold something 'big' happening this summer.” He gestured to himself with a thumb. “Finding old writing is just as important as finding the supernatural – I thought it was nonsense, at first, but with everything I'd seen in Gravity Falls, I had to be sure. So I had you program the countdown into your laptop.” Ford's glasses reflected the light of the nearby lamp, making his eyes invisible, although his face held a smile that seemed sincere enough. This was a lie, of course – whatever Fiddleford was talking about, Ford was sure that it had been Bill's handiwork. Bill was watching all of them, even now.

 

Still...Fiddleford was on the _verge_ of bringing back everything that had happened the year he'd worked with Ford, but there were many memories still lost to him – he had to rely on what Ford was saying; trust that Ford was telling the truth. And what if...what if he remembered something Ford didn't _want_ him to remember? “Wow, documents what predict the future...” He grinned a nervous, toothless grin at Ford. “Sounds like somethin' right out a' fiction book, don't it?”

 

“A portal with endless dimensional capabilities? This all sounds like fiction.” He half-smiled at these words. “You've been to the bunker? Did you find anyone down there? You shouldn't trust anyone, you know, especially anyone you find in such a strange location.”

 

“I ain't seen nothin' down there.” Fiddleford's eyes flicked from side to side, nervously. It was a lie, kind of. He had seen _something,_ but what he'd seen hadn't made much sense to him. _Frozen in a silent scream_. He shuddered. He'd seen the boy just today, he was fine – so who _or what –_ was that down there?

 

“Ford, that rift thing you got, if that thing breaks...” He hitched a breath, abrasively. “That could let _anything_ into our dimension - “ Fiddleford's hands clenched, the urge to pull out what little hair had come in creeping up on him; but he refrained. “It could let in the sorta things I saw in there...in the portal, back then – w-we should just all go to the bunker, wait it out, there ain't no way of saving things now, ain't no way –!”

 

“Calm down, Fiddleford, there is still a way!” Ford grabbed hold of Fiddeford's shoulders, his eyes softening. “You've always had a tendency to panic, but things are never as bad as they seem.”

 

“How?” The old man's gaze was skeptical. “That's what them papers predicted, ain't it? The end of the world? Ain't no way t-to stop a prophecy, I _knew_ the end of the world was a' comin', I knew it!” His eyes began to unfocus as the panic and mania set it, his brain clouding over; a temporary relapse. Fiddleford rose from his chair in a frenzy, gripping either side of his face. “This ain't good, this ain't good – I-I gotta get back down there, Ford, I can't be here when it happens; can't see things what like I saw back then – !”

 

“Fiddleford!” Ford stood up, and Fiddleford instinctually cowered against a wall, his eyes huge and scared. “Nothing can happen so long as we make sure to put our trust in the right people – the only ones who know about this are you, me, and Dipper – if no one touches the rift, we're safe.”

 

“Why do you trust me, then? What're y'all so nervous about?”

 

“I don't have an option, you're the only one with the technical know-how to help me.”

  
“What about the person who was helpin' you build the portal all them years ago? Why can't _he_ help you?” Fiddleford's gaze became defiant. “That's right, Ford, I know you weren't doin' it on your own, andit don't take much to put two-and-two together – whoever that was, he _wanted_ that thing to be dangerous--! Y'all ain't tellin' me everything!” Fiddleford looked down at his hands, at the bandage that'd been covering his arm for the last thirty years. He could feel his eyes becoming wet. “Here I was, thinkin' we were friends, but you've been keepin' secrets from me from the very beginning!”

 

“Any secrets I kept, I did it to protect you.” Ford pushed his chair in. “Please, think about this Fiddleford. We don't have much time left.

 

There was a long, awkward pause between the two of them; Fiddleford looking pointedly away from his old friend, trying to wrap his head around everything that was going on; while Ford waited with bated breath for any signs that the old man was willing to help. After what seemed like forever, Fiddleford looked up. “What do we have to do?” He asked.

 

“I'm glad you asked!” Ford smiled cheerfully; a smile strangely jovial for someone who had knowledge of the apocalypse. “The first thing I'm going to need is an adhesive to seal the rift back up – that's not the part I need you for, and with you in your weakened state, I can't have you going on a mission like that.”

 

“Duct tape maybe?” Fiddleford eyed his companion wearily. “This here some kinda patch up job?”

 

A loud, robust laugh erupted from between Ford's lips. “Don't be silly, duct tape only has 50% of the working capacity needed to hold the rift together. What we need is _alien technology_ – don't you remember where we got all of our spare parts from back in the day?”  
  
The old man stared at Ford, wracking his brain for an answer to that question. He remembered silent hallways, cold and metallic, hauntingly lit by the greenish-blue hue of a foreign tech. He grabbed his head, struggling to remember more – his hand brushing dust off the buttons of a control panel; Ford, beside him, always on guard, flashlight in hand.

  
The technology they'd gotten from that place had been well beyond anything they'd seen before, and although it had been a bit frightening at first, it had yielded some of the greatest discoveries that mankind had ever witnessed. Fiddleford's eyes rose to meet the reflective glare of Ford's glasses. “I, I remember now...i...it really was them aliens, I...” He bit his torn nails anxiously. “I'd forgotten about them aliens, up 'til now. They've really got that adhesive stuff y' need, Ford?”

 

“Of course they do, Fiddleford!” He squinted, leaning forward a bit as if to examine his old friend. “Boy, you've become doubtful over the years – don't worry though, I'm here to bring that old positive spirit back! I know things didn't go to well all those years ago, but I'm here to put things right again!” His gaze softened. “Trust me, Fiddleford. It will get better. You're still a genius, and the world won't end on my watch.”

 

Fiddleford allowed himself a small smile. “I believe ya, Ford – you gonna go to the spaceship all alone then? Ya sure you don't need me t' come with you?” He was still nervous, but he felt a tingle of pride at the other man's words, a shred of hope that things may be as okay as Ford claimed they would be. Maybe it would be alright to let Ford in again, just a little.

 

“You're not healthy enough for that, I'm afraid!” Ford reached out to pat his friend on the shoulder. “I've decided to bring my nephew Dipper – Dipper's a great kid; real smart, like us! A little dependent on his sister, maybe, but I think he's coming around. When we come back, I'll need an answer – as to whether or not you'll help me.”

 

He stood up abruptly, ruffling the tuft of hair on Fiddleford's head, and began to head upstairs. “Well, I have to have a talk with Dipper now! I'll see you once we get back – remember, the fate of the world is in your hands!” As Ford made his way up the stairs, heavy boots thumping against the woodwork, he knew it would be only a matter of time before Fiddleford agreed to assist him – the man was terrified; and now, if he didn't help save the world, he'd be riddled by guilt. He knew his old friend; knew him even now – even if he wasn't the same, he was still as soft-hearted as he'd ever been, a soft-hearted fool ruled firstly by his heart, and secondly by his head. But still, he was Ford's friend. He didn't have to be perfect.

 

 

“M..Mr. Pines, your brother...” Fiddleford sat on the floor beside the couch in the Pines' living room, Stan sitting beside in on the sofa; apparently watching reading a newspaper, though without much focus.

 

Stan grunted, and Fiddleford took that as a sign to continue. He cleared his throat. The topic made him nervous. “Is your brother a good...a good fella?”

 

“A good fellow?” Stan laughed; although it was a rather humorless sound. “Not really, I think he used to be. I'm not sure about anymore.” He turned a little in his chair to face the little old man sitting on the floor. “Is my brother bothering you again? I gotta tell that guy to lay off.”

 

“No! I mean, it ain't his fault -!” Fiddleford gazed down at his lap, feeling his face redden a little. “He wants me to save the world; thing's are in a real pickle right now, an' he says...he says if I don't help him, everyone's gonna be in trouble.”

 

“Yeah, that apocalypse bullshit again. He made a big deal about how opening the portal again would cause the world to be torn to pieces, but as you can see, sometimes he's full of hot air. He's smart, but he doesn't know everything. You know, the guy's been loopy ever since I met up with him again thirty years ago! I don't know what the hell that's about, he's driven himself to paranoia!”

 

Fiddleford frowned slightly. Why _was_ Ford so paranoid? He didn't understand, really, but he felt the edge of it – he himself was becoming uneasier by the day; it was as if someone were watching him. “Why'd you reactivate the portal, Mr. Pines? The portal...it's awfully dangerous, y'know, I...I saw what was in there...it's...it's what made me the way I am.” He swallowed.

 

“It's complicated, but I did what had to be done.” Stan met Fiddleford's gaze for a second or two. “You don't have to sit on the floor, you know. You're too old for that, grandpa.” He moved aside and patted the seat next to him. “Come on, there's room enough here for both of us. Get up here before I change my mind.”

 

McGucket stared at Stan for a second or too, feeling more flustered and confused than ever. Why was his face getting so hot at the thought of sitting next to him? He covered his cheeks, trying desperately to hide what he was sure was a growing blush; and managed to scramble up next to the other man on the couch without drawing too much attention to himself, or so he hoped. “Thank ya awfully kindly, Mr. Pines, it's been hard on m' back sleepin' in the dump all them years!”

  
Stan's hand fell chummily onto Fiddleford's shoulder, and Fiddleford could feel his heart speeding up; a rhythmic pounding in his ears. “I'm not intendin' on letting you sleep in that wreck so long as Ford needs you here.” He let out a brisk laugh. “Remember though, this ain't a charity, so don't get used to it.” Stan's lips pressed together. In all honesty, he had no idea where he intended on having McGucket sleep – the old man was pushing 70, just like he was; he couldn't just let him sleep on the floor. He couldn't keep living the way he'd been living for the past thirty years, he wouldn't be able to survive like that forever. Stan's concern for this old geezer was going to be the death of him.

 

“Thank ya, Mr. Pines, thank ya from the bottom a' my heart.” Fiddleford was near crying over how grateful he was, he had been in denial for a long time about getting too old to live in the dump; he knew if he started having health problems the conditions there would just exacerbate his symptoms. A sob hitched out of his throat, and he quickly covered his mouth, embarrassed.

 

Stan reached over and put an arm around his companion, drawing him closer. The heat in McGucket's face spread to his chest. “Hey, now, no need to cry about it, buddy! And what's with all this 'Mr. Pines' nonsense? The name's Stan.”

 

“Sorry 'bout that, Mr. P – _Stan_. I just really thought I'd...I thought I'd die in the dump or in the bunker, an...an I just got t' thinkin', no one'd know I was gone, cause ain't no one ever come to visit – Tate, he...he probably wouldn't care, ain't no matter to him. Probably'd be glad he don't have to deal with me no more.”

 

Stan frowned. He knew what it was like to have a father who he didn't get along with; he understood that Tate's situation was frustrating, with the way Fiddleford's mental situation was, it must have been difficult to speak to him after remembering him the way he _used_ to be; after Fiddleford veritably _abandoned_ him and his mother. But he also understood what it was like to have a family member that mostly ignored you, he knew that the old man was trying to be a good parent, even in his compromised mental state. Stan knew that he cared a lot, and that he loved his son. “He _does_ care about you. The guy just...he's hanging onto the past. He's probably all tied up about the person he remembers you being, so he doesn't see how great he has it now.” Stan's face darkened. “Not everyone has a father who cares about them.”

 

There was a long silence between the two of them, and then Stan spoke up. “I'm not going to let my brother hurt you again.”

 

 


	4. The End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford toys with the idea of leaving the Pines household during the dawn of the apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this up in time as promised about an hour before the premiere of the new episode, truly a work of magnificence. Short Chapter.

Fiddleford woke up on the couch feeling groggy and disoriented. Stan was gone, although there was a pillow under his head and a blanket tucked over him.

 

“Sure am fallin' asleep a lot lately, guess it comes from bein' old....” He mumbled to himself, drowsily, rubbing his eyes before getting up from the couch and padding his way into the kitchen.

 

Fiddleford was saved from the kitchen floor's stark coldness by the socks that Stan had given him to wear, although they were a few sizes too big for him. He felt suddenly alone and out of place in a house that he didn't live in. “Stan?” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Where ya at, Mr. Pines?”

  
Fiddleford hesitated before trying again. “I saw the blanket y'all gave me, I really 'preciate it! S...Stan?”

 

“Mr. McGucket?” A small voice echoed from the other room, and Fiddleford perked up slightly. A small girl ran into the kitchen, carrying a bag with some papers sticking out of it. She gave a large, braces-clad grin when she caught sight of McGucket. “Are you looking for my Grunkle? He's out now, but he'll be back later!”

 

Fiddleford's face fell briefly, but he quickly brightened. “Aw, that's okay Mabel. Whatcha' got there?” His eyes fell onto the bag.

 

The girl reached into the bag, grabbing a piece of paper and shoving it in McGucket's direction. He took the paper, looking down at it. It was a bit difficult to read this close without his glasses on, so he pulled the paper away from his face a little, revealing a hand-drawn picture of Mabel and her brother at their 13th birthday party. He smiled. “This...an invitation?”

 

“Sure is, Mr. McGucket! _You_ want to come to the best, funnest, _wildest_ 13th birthday party bash of all time, don't you?” She leaned in, putting an arm around the old man's back and whispering. “ _I know you do_. This is me and Dipper's first step into being _real_ teenagers!” She spread her arms wide, a look of pure excitement written all over her features.

 

“Oh wow, I wouldn't miss it fer the world! You kids are really growin' up fast, makes me miss the days when m' son was just about yer age.” He winked. “An' if there's a good hootenanny to be had, y' know Old Man McGucket's gonna be the first to arrive!”

 

Mabel pumped a fist. “Yeah! Hootenanny!” She stuck her leg out and spit to the side before shoving the rest of the invitation back into her bag.

 

“Hey uh, Mable, d' y'all know when Mr. Pines is a' gonna be back? He uh, he washed m' clothes fer me, an' I just wanted to ask him where they were an' all. An' thank him proper like, of course – Your Uncle, he's...well, he's an awfully kind man, y' know?” He could feel that fierce blush lighting up his face again, he hoped his beard would do a good job of covering it up.

 

It didn't.

 

“Mr. McGucket, are you okay?” Mabel tilted her head to one side, looking at the old man with a dubious expression on her face. “Your face is _really_ red.”  
  
The old man sputtered for a few seconds. “I'm fine, I just, I just, I'm sorry, this here's hard for me -”  
  
The young girl looked at Fiddleford for a few more seconds, questioningly, when suddenly she gasped, hands pushing on either side of her cheeks. “You! Oh my gosh....” Her expression slowly grew into a wide, knowing grin. “You _love_ him, don't you?

 

“N-no! Please-” Fiddleford held his hands out in front of him, trying to quiet the girl. “Please, don't go sayin' things like that, I...” He rubbed his arm nervously, unable to meet Mabel in the eyes. “It's just....it's just a crush, ain't nothin' big, I'll be over it in a few days. I ain't _in love_ with him or nothin'.”

  
The little brown-haired girl ran forward to tug on McGucket's arm. “You have to tell him! I've always wanted a  _third_ grunkle – just imagine, you two would be so  _perfect_ for each other!”

 

“No!” McGucket's eyes went fearfully wide at the prospect of letting his secret out. “No, ya can't, Mabel, ya can't!” Alarm bells were ringing in the old man's head. “Ain't no one have to know 'bout this but you 'n me, okay?”

 

Mabel's cheeks puffed out. She let go of McGucket, crossing her arms in front of her. “Aww, why not?”  
  
Fiddleford let out a long, low sigh, running his hand through the gray patch on his head. “Just...just look at me, Mabel - “ He let out a humorless little giggle. “Wasn't it you who tried t' spruce me up way back when? Ya....ya had to draw a face on the back a' m' head and have me walk backwards down the street.” His face fell “I..I don't look _good._ An...an beyond that, I'm just the local kook, I ain't worth anything to a man like Mr. Pines.” 

 

“You remember that, huh?” Mabel looked sheepishly up at the old man. “Look, though, you have _hair_ now! If I know my Grunkle Stan, I know he loves a man with hair!”

 

Fiddleford touched the little tuft self-consciously. “It ain't barely anything, I only noticed it on account a' my head itchin' like crazy.”

 

“But it's _something_.” Mabel's eyes sparkled, and Fiddleford gave her a small smile. 

  
Mabel zipped her bag back up, giving her elderly companion a reassuring pat on the back. “I have to go deliver these birthday invitations, but when I get back -” She made a gesture with her fingers, pointing first to her eyes, and then to Fiddleford's. “It's time to work some of that 'ol Mabel magic!”

 

Fiddleford's fingers tightened as the girl grabbed her bag and ran out of the room as cheerfully as ever; he looked down at the hand-drawn piece of paper, it was such a happy and positive event to be celebrating on what could very well be the eve of the apocalypse. He smiled a little, although he could feel his nerves fit to bust.

  
He had to get out of here. The thought hit him like a ton of bricks. He hurriedly stuffed the paper Mabel had given him into his pocket before ducking into Stan's room in search of his clothes.

 

“Aw, fiddlesticks...” He mumbled to himself beneath his breath, eyes scanning the room. It wasn't as if he _wanted_ to leave, not really – but what with Mabel knowing about his crush on Stan and his _own_ issues keeping a secret like that, it was only a matter of time before Stan found out should he decide to stay.

 

_And he couldn't let that happen_ . 

  
He felt that first wave of panic begin to set it – he was  _already_ an expert at making a fool of himself, he didn't need to embarrass himself further. There wasn't anything that Mabel or anyone else could to do to make him look any better; and even if he  _looked_ better there was nothing anyone could do for his mind.

 

He was just a little old man; he didn't have many teeth or much hair. He had warts on his nose, and his eyes didn't always focus properly. He  _knew_ that if Stan found out, he'd be disgusted – he'd probably kick him out of the house, he was already treading on thin ice anyway, even if Mr. Pines  _was_ being kind to him.

 

That kindness had made his pathetic old heart soften –  _dang it all_ , Stan was the first adult to show him kindness in the last thirty years, it figured that McGucket, with all his desire for attention and compassion, would trip up like a lovestruck schoolboy. 

 

Fiddleford stuck his hand into Stan's clothing drawer and began to shuffle around, looking for his overalls. He tossed a pair of trousers aside, some socks, a tank – nothing was organized; but Fiddleford hadn't seen any kind of organization, even in himself, for many years. _Where were they, where were they?_

 

McGucket's eyes practically bugged out of his head as he noticed the mess he as making, and he let out a small squeak of dismay. “Oh! Stan ain't gonna be happy if 'n he find out about this -” He grabbed the clothes he had tossed aside in a hurry and stuffed them back into the drawer, sweating ferociously as he attempted to make the mess resemble what it had been before his raid.

 

It still looked like a mess. Fiddleford stuck his fingers in his mouth and bit nervously on his nail with one of his few remaining teeth, his eyes wandering to the side of the room that he hadn't checked yet. “B-Boy howdy, there 'tis!” He hopped briefly from foot to foot, spotting his clothes folded and stacked on the bureau.  _He could finally make it out of here!_ He could return to the bunker, hide somewhere down there where no one would find him, and never have to think of Ford's wild scheme or his silly feelings for Stanley ever again!

 

Fiddleford grabbed the clothes and hugged them to his chest, taking a big whiff of the clean laundry smell, blushing at the thought of Stan taking the time to offer him this gesture. He glanced down, suddenly bewildered.

 

_The end of the world was coming._

 

_Ford, Mabel, Dipper...they were all in danger. And Stan, too._ He gripped the clothes more tightly, suddenly very distressed by the thought of what would happen to them if he left them to their own devices.

 

_But they don't need me. Ford is wrong. I can't do anything. I'm getting better, but I'll never be good enough._

 

“But if 'n I don't help 'em, who's gonna do it?” The old man spoke out loud, although there was no one there to hear him.

 

He hesitated for a few seconds – before, he had been so concerned with his own life that he hadn't even thought about the Pines family. But now...

 

Fiddleford's ears perked up as he heard someone approaching the doorway. His eyes went wide, and he skittered behind the bed, crouching down to avoid being seen. _Dangit, he was going to be in so much trouble if they found him in Mr. Pines' room!_

 

“Gramps?” The gruff, slightly belligerent voice echoed out from the hallway out side the bedroom, and Fiddleford let out a whine of alarm. He slapped his hands over his mouth, hoping Stan hadn't heard him. _Oh gosh, why'd it have to be him of all people_?

 

“Huh? Someone hiding out in my room? Dipper, is that you? I told you, there aren't any more secrets I'm keeping – my brother's the most shocking thing to come out of all this.” Stan sidled along the edge of the bed; Fiddleford huddling down even more, suddenly afraid that the other man would lash out at him if he discovered him.

 

“C'mon kid, I ain't playin' games with you, I-”

 

'I'm sorry I'm sorry!' McGucket burst out from behind the bed, hands clasped together, falling to his knees in an overdramatic exhibit of apology. “I ain't mean nothin' by sneakin' around in here, Mr. Pines, I was just lookin' for m' clothes an' all.” The old man looked down at the folded overalls in his arms, a wave of emotion hitting him like a ton of bricks. He lifted the clothes to his cheek, which had become quite pink beneath his beard. “I had these for 30 years now, an' this is the first time they been cleaned official-like since then!”

 

Stan looked surprised for a moment or two – he'd thought Old Man McGucket was still sleeping, but he guessed the ol' coot had more energy in him than he'd thought.

 

“Yeah yeah yeah, you know it's normal to have clean clothes at least some of the time.” Stan got behind Fiddleford and began to push him out of the room rather unceremoniously, with Fiddleford scrambling to regain his footing as he was herded out the door. “Not saying anything's wrong with you of, Lord knows keeping up with laundry is hard – have to fight with the boy to clean his clothes all the time. Probably doesn't clean 'em at all, just waits until he grows out of 'em.” He rolled his eyes. “Yeesh, am I right?”

 

Fiddleford rubbed his head sheepishly. “I'm awful forgetful, so it's just, a lot 'a the things I need t' get done just never happen. Tryin' t' be better about it, but it's real hard. M' body works faster 'n m' brain.”

 

“Sticky notes.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Stan reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pad of sticky notes. He tore a note off the pad, leaned forward, and stuck it to Fiddleford's forehead. “You'll remember now, won't you, Gramps?”

 

The old man went cross eyed for a second or two, reaching up to pull off the note, and then gazed down at it with a bemused expression. “Well, I guess if 'n I plaster m'self with these things, ain't no way I can't ferget anymore!” Fiddleford hesitated for a second or two, and then began to laugh as Stan gave him an encouraging smile.

 

The two stood there for a minute or two, chuckling over the notion like old friends, before a sudden and awkward silence passed over them both.

 

Stan was the first one to speak up. “You were going to leave, weren't you?”

 

Fiddleford said nothing for a moment or two, his facial features twisting into a shameful grimace. He gripped his clothes more tightly, finding himself suddenly totally unable to meet the other man's gaze. “I don' expect y' to understan', I gotta lot on m' mind, an'....” _Oh god he could feel tears welling up in his eyes oh god oh god._ He held it back. “It's real complicated, it ain't just about bein' scared of yer brother 'r nothin,' there's more to it than that...”

 

McGucket found himself surprised when a reassuring hand landed on his shoulder. His eyes widened. “You can go if you want, ain't nobody keeping you here.” Stan removed his hand and half-shrugged. “My brother will just have to figure out how to do it without you. The guy's always been so intent on not needing help from anyone – everyone who ends up helping the guy just ends up on the losing side of a bad situation.”

 

“Stan, I...I'm so afraid....” Fiddleford began to twist the cloth in his hands even more feverishly before looking up at his companion. “I'm terrified, I ain't never been this scared 'n m' whole life. Ford's right y' know, the end of the world...it's a comin,' an' I don't know if 'n there's anything anyone can do about it.” He suddenly felt so vulnerable and small. “But...I...I don't think I can leave. It ain't right, because y'all were the only ones what ever showed me a lick a' kindness since becomin' this way. Y'all were the only ones who ever cared about me, even though I ain't good for anyone or anything.” The old man looked up at Stan in admiration. “I ain't leavin' you an' the kids behind, an'...an' if that means I gotta work with Ford, even if 'n it means I'mma gonna get hurt doin' it...it'll be worth it.”

 

Stan gazed at the little man standing in front of them, honestly surprised by the sudden passion and selflessness that he was demonstrating. He could see that Fiddleford was trembling a little; he truly was staring into what he believed was the apocalypse. The little old man had always seemed a bit flighty, but here he was, more than ready to see himself hurt again if it meant protecting people that had been accommodating. “McGucket. You're shaking _really_ bad. Are you sure you're gonna be okay?”

 

McGucket grinned his big, cheerful, toothless grin, puffing out his chest. “I'm more an' okay, Stan, I'm ready t' battle the end a' the world itself!”

 

“We gotta get you some dentures, old man.” Stan smiled. Fiddleford was kind of cute. In an old guy sort of way, he guessed.

 

The two looked up suddenly when Ford and Dipper came bursting through the front door, Ford hustling in, his coat trailing behind him like a triumphant flag – Dipper trotting at his heels; both of them looking as if they been through hell and back.

 

“Hey whoa whoa whoa! Where have you two been? Have you been taking my nephew out on dangerous missions that could – I don't know – _get him killed?”_ Stan intercepted his brother on the way to the basement, Fiddleford trailing behind him, looking more bewildered than ever.

 

“Not now, Stanley!” Ford elbowed past Stan, Dipper looking up at his Grunkle apologetically as he broke off from Ford and headed for his room. “Sorry, Grunkle Stan. Hi McGucket!” He gave a wave before heading off, leaving Stan looking belligerent and Fiddleford looking confused.

 

“Fiddleford, will you accompany me to the basement?” Ford extended a hand, causing Fiddleford to withdraw a little bit, but the old man finally accepted it. He looked back at Stan with a sorrowful expression. “Be back t' talk to y' later, Mr. Pines.” He gave one last small smile before the two men disappeared into the underground.

 

“Have you made your decision?” Ford looked over his intertwined fingers at his long-time friend and laboratory assistant. “The search for the adhesive was a huge success – that Dipper kid is really going to grow up to be something else, you know?”  
  
The shadows in the darkened room made it difficult for Fiddleford to make out his companions face, but the little old man returned his gaze, unwaveringly, for the first time since they're reunion. “I reckon I'll do it.” He hesitated. “I got...I got people what I wanna protect.”

 

Ford looked at Fiddleford with a warm, almost tender expression. He knew Fiddleford would give in at some point, he really did care so genuinely for other people that he was willing to put himself at risk for their safety. “You're a good person, partner.”

 

Suddenly, the whole room began to shake. Fiddleford gasped, grabbing onto the wall nearby, fingers slipping on the smooth surface. “What 'n tarnation's that?” He looked to Stanford for an answer, aghast, but Ford was already getting up from his chair, ignoring Fiddleford in his rush to figure out what was going on.

 

The old man forced himself to his feet, desperately attempting to stay upright as he rushed to join Ford and Dipper outside. The wind cut at his bare skin, he shielded his eyes against the bright, neon lights painting the sky; dragging a criss-cross scar atop the treeline. “The...that's....” Bright blue eyes went wide at the sight of the horizon being torn asunder. “The end of the world.”

 

Ford stood beside him, coat flapping in the draft of the apocalyptic wind. “We're too late.”

 

 


End file.
